


Somewhen in Time

by AlwaysJohn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Chapter 3 is not so angsty, Chapter 4 is a sickfic, Chapter 5 is a another kind of reunion without all the angst, Chapter 6 is gentleness bordering on fluff, During Sherlock's time away, Gentle Ending, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, John to the Rescue, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, The consulting criminal rears his head
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-07 20:50:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15227616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysJohn/pseuds/AlwaysJohn
Summary: “I miss you in waves and tonight I’m drowning. You left me fending for my life and it feels like you’re the only one who can bring me back to the shore alive.” Denice Envall





	1. Signs by Three

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notjustmom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/gifts).



> To and for notjustmom,
> 
> I was so taken by your use of the word ‘somewhen’ that I couldn’t delete it from my Mind Cubby. Because it seemed a perfect fit for this little collection of scattershot stories, I gift it to you with my thanks for the neverending joy you bring whenever you write with pen in hand or keyboard beneath your fingertips, whichever the case may be. ;)

00o00

It is just after sunset when John slips through the entrance and makes his way to the black granite stone that stands alone in a quiet corner of the cemetery. In his hand, wrapped in a protective sleeve, is an array of flowers he’s carried with care from a florist not far from Baker Street.

The shadows are deep within the cemetery at this time of day. During his previous, earlier in the day visits, he’s walked off the paths to avoid others, but now, when it is deserted, he stays on the path to reach his destination quickly. 

He drops to sitting cross-legged in front of the stone, pushing into a small pile the now wilted flowers he left a few days ago. Six months gone, and he hasn’t allowed a week to pass that he hasn’t come here at least once. He’s lost count of the times he’s sat in front of the simple marker as many as five days in a row simply because he has nowhere else to be but here, where his heart needs to be.

“Hi, Sherlock. It’s me. I wanted to bring you these flowers. I’m not sure I got the right color, to mean friendship, but I thought they were nice. You probably don’t care much for flowers, but I wanted to bring you something to show you how much I miss you. It’s a good thing I came today since the flowers I left the last time are pretty much dead...just like you.”

Pressing his thumb and forefinger into the corners of his eyes stops the tears for a bit, but soon he is lost in his grief. The tears are never far away. With one hand John props the flowers against the gravestone, swiping at his tears with the back of the other.

“I’m sorry you’re gone, Sherlock. I don’t understand why you would..I don’t understand. Since you can’t tell me, I’ll never know the reason and that’s something I’ll just have carry with me for the rest of my life.”

John drops his head into his hands, his tears brimming anew. “I don’t think I can do this, Sherlock. Not alone. It’s too hard.”

He startles when a sudden light wind rustles the leaves above his head. Tugging his torch from his pocket, he surveys the area around him, but the illumination only creates more shadows. The chill of uneasiness slithers up his back, reminding him that with Sherlock by his side, he’d rarely felt the fear he feels in this moment. 

John allows himself one breathless moment to imagine that Sherlock is beside the tree nearby, just beyond the reach of his torch. A sob breaks free from his throat and sends the moment skittering away.

“I’ll come back soon, Sherlock,” he whispers, laying his palm on the top of the cold stone to steady himself as he forces his body upright, but he doesn’t leave right away. His heart has more to say. 

“I miss you,” he finally says, his voice wavering as he turns away, but then he looks back over his shoulder, as though Sherlock is standing there. “I will always miss you.” 

00o00

“To me, you were more than just a person. You were a place where I finally felt at home.” Denice Envall

Eighteen months on and the hour just before dawn finds John at the grave once more. Leaning his shoulder and head against the the granite, he traces the gold lettering with his finger, and, as he has done for the dozens of times he’s visited with Sherlock, he’s brought flowers.

“I brought yellow roses this time, Sherlock. The florist says these roses are excellent for cheering people up. That’s not going to happen for either of us at this point, but I thought it would be something nice, something different. It’s supposed to represent feelings of joy and delight, but that’s not going to happen either, unless you stop being dead. They also mean a sign of appreciation and platonic love.”

For a long while only the birdsong breaks the silence. As far as he knows, he’s the only one here. John curls against the stone and closes his eyes against the tears that never fail.

“I appreciated you, Sherlock, but not as much as I should have. And I..do..love you. You were..my best friend. You filled my life with color and made me feel useful again. I was happy then, by your side, no matter how much danger we got into.”

For a moment silence gathers around him once more. Then, voices in the distance catch his attention. Caretakers he imagines, but he makes no move to leave. This is their time, his and Sherlock’s and he’s not willing to give that up. If they come upon him, so be it.

“I’ve thought about leaving Baker Street, Sherlock, but each time I try, my heart races and my stomach goes all peaky. I’m not ready to say goodbye and move on. I can’t, not now. Maybe not ever.” John clears his throat, relieved to have said it aloud.

Suddenly there are multiple approaching footsteps on the run. John curls small as the intruders grow near, hoping his black jacket against the gravestone makes him invisible. Only when the men pass him by is he able to catch a glimpse of them. Two men, one chasing the other, he deduces. 

For an instant, the image of a tall man in a black coat passes before his eyes, but he knows it’s his mind playing tricks for in reality the man is not so tall and the hair is wrong. When their laughter fades and they pass beyond his sight, John realises that his face is wet with tears and the ache in his chest is more painful than he remembers on that last terrible day.

Soon after, when the surrounding area is quiet once more, John places his palm over the gold lettering for a moment. He pulls himself up on the smooth stone, letting his hand remain on the top surface.

“I still miss you,” he whispers around the clot in his throat. “I promise that will never change.”

00o00

You broke my heart…  
But I still love you with all the pieces. Denice Envall

John is once again in his usual place for what feels like the thousandth time and maybe it is, but it doesn’t matter how many times he’s sat here or how many flowers he’s brought. He will always return here. 

He’s limped through the first four stages of grief, at least in part, so the internet tells him, but he’s given up trying to get past the fourth, the moving on and acceptance part. He’s decided he’s safe where he is, in the depression, reflection and loneliness stage. He plays with the idea of remaining there forever because to move on means there is no hope. He’s content to live only with love remembered, tears and a deep sorrow and that tiny flicker of hope without which he’d be lost. 

He just wants Sherlock to stop being dead. 

He shares sunset with Sherlock now, no less than four days per week. The caretakers know him now. They nod or hold up a hand in greeting, but say nothing when he arrives, and they leave the gate unlocked, knowing he will lock it when he departs. It’s a silent understanding that John appreciates.

Settling cross-legged in front of the grave, as is his custom now, he holds a spray of roses in his hands, as though Sherlock might reach out to accept them.

“Hi, Sherlock. It’s clear enough tonight that we may be able to see the stars, you know, the solar system?” John smiles at that, but only just. “I’ll see it for both of us, if that’s okay?” 

John places the roses against the headstone so that they stand upright. 

“I brought special flowers this time. The florist told me once that red roses are an unmistakable expression of deep emotion? Red roses also mean respect, admiration and devotion, all of which I felt, still feel for you.”

John grows silent for a bit, as he gathers his thoughts, drawing in a deep breath before continuing. He’s nervous, but doesn’t know why.

“I’ve been thinking a lot these last few days. Well, really for quite a long time. It’s just past two years now and there’s something that I want to tell you. No, that’s not right, something I need to tell you. It’s important, so pay attention, Sherlock.”

John plucks two deep red roses from the others and holds them in his hand. It’s nearly dark, but he’s certain he has chosen the appropriate ones.

“I read that deep red roses can be used to convey heartfelt regret and sorrow. At least that’s what the Internet says. I don’t ask the florist anymore, because she just looks at me with pity in her eyes.” John pauses again, feeling the pressure filling his chest. “I regret that I never told you before you..went away..and the sorrow I feel will always be with me.”

Clearing his throat, John finally allows himself to say what is and has been in his heart. 

“I love you, Sherlock. I have for a long time, and I’m sorry I waited until it was too late to tell you. After that night at Angelo’s when you put me off, you probably deleted everything anyway-”

“I’ve not deleted anything about you.”

“‘Cause sentiment is not your...area..” John continues because he knows the voice he hears is in his head, even as his heart slams against his ribcage.

“John.”

John pushes himself upright, still holding the two deep red roses in his hand as Sherlock seems to materialise out of the shadows.

John steps back, stunned into silence by the impossibility of what is before him. Shaking his head as he lowers his gaze to stare at the ground beneath his feet, he struggles and fails to restore some sense of equilibrium. Hoping Sherlock is really here and terrified that he isn’t, that he’s finally gone round the twist, it becomes increasingly difficult to draw a breath until John’s body finally betrays him and he begins to shake.

“Not an apparition or your imagination, John, I’m really here.”

“Don’t do that,” he whispers, still staring at his feet.

“Don’t do what, John?”

“Don’t deduce me.”

“Why?”

“Because when I look up, you won’t be there and I’ll be broken all over again.”

“Look at me, John.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“No, this isn’t real. It’s in my head.” 

It’s the weight of a hand on his shoulder that nearly drives him to his knees. Too late John realises that he’s falling apart inside, that his carefully constructed emotional wall, such as it is, is crumbling and there is no way he can stop it this time. 

He reaches out for something solid to hold onto; his searching fingers curl into soft woollen fabric that brings back a memory which threatens to consume him. 

“I am here, John. I promise.”

It is nearly dark now, almost too dark to see. John reaches up to explore the face he never thought he’d see again.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, John.”

“I don’t understand. I saw..”

“I promise I will explain, but not now. I have no right to ask, but I’m asking you to trust me. Please, could you do this for me?”

At those last words, John gasps and begins to shake once more. He grips Sherlock’s coat front to keep himself from collapsing to the ground, but it’s not enough. His knees give way just as Sherlock’s arm circles round his back to support him, and it is one long finger that gently raises his head. 

The shock that reverberates through John’s body stops his shaking stone cold as Sherlock tentatively nips kisses to John’s mouth. With a whimper and a sigh, John melts against him.

A million light years later, when they part breathless and still holding fast to one other, it is John who finds his voice first.

“Sherlock? It’s just a croak, but it is sufficient.

“John,” Sherlock whispers in a not so steady voice as he presses their foreheads together.

“Really you?”

John feels the slow nod of Sherlock’s head and the kiss to the tip of his nose.

“Really me.”


	2. The Beast Within

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a darkness destroying Baker Street. Sherlock struggles to focus through the fog inside his head, struggles to connect with his missing reality.

There is a darkness destroying Baker Street. Sherlock struggles to focus through the fog inside his head, struggles to connect with his missing reality.

It’s him, Moriarty, the consulting criminal. Sherlock is frozen, unable to move away. Moriarty speaks, leering at him, his evil grin causing Sherlock to tremble with anger, but the words are just a mind-numbing mumbling, indecipherable, of some language in which he is not fluent. 

He wants to get away, but not without John. He’s promised never to leave John behind again, but his soldier isn’t near.

It is dark when he opens his eyes. 

“John?” 

Sherlock calls out to his touchstone, the one person who means home to him, the only man to hold his heart in his sturdy hands, but there is no reply, no one is there beside him. He is alone.

The beast rises to twice its normal size, terrifying, evil dripping from its distorted mouth as it looms over him.

“Sherlock?”

Then, John Watson materialises as though from nothing, fearless and military straight, and determined to protect him. To Sherlock’s horror, John allows himself to be captured.

Sherlock cries out, “John, no!” as the beast encloses the small body in its clutches, holding him up to look at him more closely, as though he were a tasty morsel.

John stares down the beast, waiting, his danger smile in place and primed for the precise moment to act. He sees with crystal clarity the tightening of John’s fingers around the grip of his weapon, his finger in place at the trigger. As the Moriarty- beast transfers John’s person from one hand to the other, playing the game he always plays, John slowly draws his arm upward to rest the edge of the barrel against his own opposite shoulder.

“Awww, here we are at last. You and me, Sherlock. And our problem, the final problem..” It’s Moriarty’s voice that speaks, and Sherlock knows to whom he refers. John has always been his target, the sure shot to Sherlock, the only way to burn the heart out of him. 

Before the beast can continue, John turns the barrel towards its face, slamming it into its grotesque mouth.

“You will never take him away from me,” John vows in his soldierly command as he squeezes the trigger with absolute deadly accuracy.

Stunned, eyes blown wide, the beast roars, stumbles, falling to its knees. John tumbles out of its dying grip, landing flat on his chest.

“No! John, run!” Sherlock shouts at him, but John, the breath knocked from him, holds an arm to his chest, and lifts his head to lock eyes on him. Seconds later, he is trapped beneath Moriarty’s corpse.

Sherlock screams in terror at John’s certain death, but he can’t move his body to go to him.

“No, it can’t be. You’re not dead. John, you are not dead, I won’t allow it. You cannot leave..me..behind.” 

“Sherlock. Sherlock, I’m here.”

As if by some miracle, John emerges from a crevice beneath the beast’s neck and limps toward him. Blood smears his face and hands, but he is alive.

“John. Oh, god, oh, god, oh, god.”

“Open your eyes, love. Open your eyes.”

The soft familiar voice reaches inside him, curling around his heart. John’s hands hold his face as though he is something precious, treasured and cherished.

Finally, in his mind’s eye, the beast recedes from his sight and John is the only visage he sees. Dark blue eyes, wide with concern, hold him in their gaze.

“Sherlock?” 

Sherlock stares at him, reaches out to touch his fingertips to John’s face, traces his thumb across his mouth. Only then does he believe that John is all right, that he is alive. 

Folded into strong arms, a tentative kiss for one more affirmation and Sherlock is home again, safe within John’s  
comforting embrace.

“Danger night?”

“Yes.”

“Now or Later?”

“Never.”

“That bad?”

“Yes.”

“The storyteller?”

Sherlock nods, but just barely. They’d promised never to mention the ‘M’ name ever again. When he shivers, John tightens his arms, drawing him impossibly closer.

“I love you, y’know.“

“Yes.”

“Always and forever.”

“Yes.”

“You can tell me when you’re ready. Whatever you want to share won’t change how I feel about you. I will still love you to bits.”

“And all my bits love all your bits.”

“Berk.” John tells him, then giggles.

Sherlock nuzzles into John’s neck to tell him how much more he is loved for chasing away the monster who broke free from where it resides in the deepest, darkest recesses of his mind.

“All right?”

“I am now.”

“I love you.”

“So you’ve said.”

“It bears repeating.”

“Yes, yes, it does, John. Thank you.”

“Another kiss?”

“Yes, please.”


	3. Another Fine Mess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I do not chortle,” Sherlock insists, his ulterior motive to keep John talking and aware, works brilliantly.

As the dust and debris from the collapsed roof settle, Sherlock opens his eyes slowly. At once his focus sharpens; he sees John lying face down, just beyond his reach. 

“John?” he calls out softly, aware of his own fear when John doesn’t respond.

After a swift survey of what remains of the roof, he determines he isn’t pinned, rather, he’s is somewhat protected by old filing cabinets and desks that have taken the brunt of the collapse and left him a small area of relative safety. John’s position, however is a bit more precarious. 

By keeping as close as possible to the lino, Sherlock uses his forearms and elbows to pull himself to John. Wrapping his long, dust-covered fingers around his doctor’s wrist, he searches for signs of life. Relief washes over him when he feels a strong, steady pulse. 

“John?” 

John stirs, but only a bit. He appears dazed, barely coherent, but that is all Sherlock is able to deduce, as he can’t see the rest of John from his vantage point.

Pulling his scarf from around his neck, Sherlock lifts John’s head just enough to cushion his cheek from the floor. With a firm grip on John’s jacket collar, he crawls backwards, pulling his doctor into the safety of the niche provided by the office furniture.

Crouched over John, Sherlock uses the end of his scarf to wipe away the dust from John’s face, taking great care to clear his eyes. It’s running his hands all over John’s body for any sort of injury that finally brings his doctor back to him.

“Sherlock?”

“Lie still, John. I need to check for injuries.”

“I’m okay.”

“Do you hurt anywhere? Can you move all your fingers? Can you feel your toes?”

“Sherlock, I think I’m okay.”

“I need to..”

Sherlock feels the tears of hysteria building as he continues to examine John. He bites back a sob of relief when John slowly pushes himself to a sitting position.

“Look, Sherlock, no blood. I’m fine. I promise.”

Pulling John against his chest, cradling his head against his shoulder, Sherlock rocks John back and forth as his tears overflow.

“It’s okay, Sherlock. It’s okay. I’m all right,” John whispers, nuzzling into his neck. 

It’s not lost on Sherlock that John’s speech is somewhat slurred. He doesn’t think a concussion is likely, but he is aware that John is shaky and not just right. He presses his lips to John’s temple to calm himself as well as his doctor. 

After several minutes, John pushes away from him, holding his face in his hands. 

“This is another fine mess you’ve gotten me into.”

“Is that a pop-culture reference, John?” Sherlock asks between mind-numbing kisses.

“Yes.”

“From that idiotic film you forced me to watch three days ago?” 

Kiss.

“Didn’t force you, and you chortled several times.”

Kisssssssssss.

“I do not chortle,” Sherlock insists, his ulterior motive to keep John talking and aware, works brilliantly.

“Yes you do.”

Kiss. 

“Must have been an American film.”*

“It was, Sherlock, but Stan Laurel was actually British. Oliver Hardy was American. They were very popular in the early twentieth century.”

Kiss.

“So, really old, then. Dull, John. Not interested.” 

“All right.”

From somewhere in the distance the sounds of rescue disturb the silence.

“Sherlock? John?” An annoyingly familiar voice calls out.

“In the southwest corner, Mycroft.”

”Speaking of really old.”

John giggles against Sherlock’s shoulder.

“I think we need to stop kissing for a bit. Save one for me for when we get home?”

Sherlock grins wickedly. “I will save you a dozen, John.”

“And I will be sure to collect each and every one, my lovely.”

As Mycroft steps into their line of sight, wearing a safety helmet, John and Sherlock look at each other and then back at the British Government, attired in his usual posh suit.

“Not one word, Sherlock, or I will have Lestrade arrest you for trespassing.”

“Of course, brother mine. Not a single chuckle.”

“Until we get home,” John whispers as he and Sherlock fold themselves under two separate desks while the firemen clear the area.

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock says in a perfect imitation of his brother.

“Sherlock, don’t poke the bear.”

“Very well, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Another Fine Mess, Laurel and Hardy 1930


	4. Tea and Sympathy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A couple of sickies...

“Jaaaawwwwnnn?”

From the kitchen where he is preparing tea and toast, John, despite his clogged ears which present much like being underwater, hears Sherlock’s mournful wail.

Sherlock has the sniffles. Drama queen that he is, he wants John’s exclusive attention. Trouble is, John also has the sniffles, although he is a bit further on in the progress.

On my way, he texts, dropping his phone into his robe pocket, annoyed that he can’t quite hear the ping on Sherlock’s phone in the bedroom.

With the tray firmly grasped in both hands, John pads past the fridge and down the hallway to the bedroom, where he finds Sherlock sprawled across the bed, his head buried under a pillow.

“Jaaaawwwwnnn?”

“I’m here, Sherlock.”

Groaning and whinging, Sherlock sits up against the headboard, pulling the duvet up to his chest, and releasing a deep cough as if to remind John that he’s terribly ill.

John rolls his eyes and sits on the bed next to him. 

“My transport is failing me, John.”

John snakes his hand beneath the duvet to rest his palm against Sherlock’s belly. His detective squeals like a little girl.

“John! Where have your hands been, in the freezer?”

”No fever, excellent, and your transport only fails you when you ignore it until it retaliates. Now eat two slices of the toast and finish all the tea.” 

“I’m not hungry.”

“Do I have to go all soldiery on you?”

“No?”

“I’m sorry? I can’t hear very well with clogged ears, Sherlock, you’ll have to speak up.”

“NO JOHN, YOU DON’T HAVE TO GO ALL SOLDIERY ON ME.”

John stares at him for a moment, determined to stay calm and to let him have his strop. “I’m just a bit hard of hearing, Sherlock, I’m not deaf. I’m sure it will resolve soon, thank you for asking.”

“Hateful.”

John thinks he hears Sherlock correctly, but whatever it is, he lets it pass. A comfortable silence settles around them as they finish the last of the toast and tea. After placing the tray on the floor, John drops his robe to the floor as he slips under the duvet next to Sherlock and pulls him close. Resting his head against John’s shoulder, Sherlock sighs.

“Pyjamas, John? Really?”

John buries his fingers in the messy curls that have gone unattended for two days.

“You’re pretty, but when you’re ill, you are insufferable.”

The sensation of Sherlock’s soft grin as it touches his skin never fails to shoot a shiver up his spine.

“Part of my charm,” Sherlock whispers against his ear.

John purses his lips and rolls his eyes, both expressions of which he is certain Sherlock is aware. He holds Sherlock tighter and kisses his temple.

“Yeah, there’s that.”


	5. Return to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suddenly the air is electrified, as if disturbed by a more powerful shift in its current....

John paces beside the baggage claim at Heathrow. He stares at the floor, as a steady column of people veer around him to avoid a collision.

Waiting.

He checks his watch, then hears the announcement of the awaited flight. Only then does he breath a sigh of relief, but still he paces, knowing there will be another wait while the passengers disembark.

More waiting. This kind of waiting, anticipating, is...hateful, he thinks, borrowing one of Sherlock’s retorts. He sniffs, allowing a tiny smile to lift the corner of his mouth.

He wishes he’d not agreed to wait here instead of at the arrival gate. John checks his watch again, only three minutes have passed since the last time he looked.

Suddenly the air is electrified, as if disturbed by a more powerful shift in its current.

He turns, slowly, deliberately, even as his heart stutters in his chest, his breathing shallow, labored.

There is no doubt as John raises his head.

And he is there.

Beautiful. 

Brilliant.

Amazing.

With a closer look,

Knackered.

Disheveled. 

Rumpled.

And all mine, John’s heart declares. 

John strides toward him, tears threatening.

Sherlock’s gaze rests on him, his eyes too shiny to be anything but tear-filled. He drops his carry-on bag, holding open his arms as John approaches.

John tumbles into Sherlock’s embrace, enveloped within his greatcoat. He raises his head, goes up on his toes to press a lingering, desperate kiss to his lovely Cupid’s bow to welcome him home. 

The throngs of people pass by them as though they were invisible. In their own little world, perhaps they are.


	6. A Candle in the Window

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the table, the candle flickers knowingly, winking at him as if with a capricious smirk that it knows something he doesn’t. What does it know?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments and kudos on this little collection of stories. Even after all the time I have been writing my thoughts of John and Sherlock I am still amazed that there are friends 'out there' who read and enjoy my stories. It is beyond my wildest dreams. xoxoxo <3 to all

On the table, the candle flickers knowingly, winking at him as if with a capricious smirk that it knows something he doesn’t. What does it know? 

For a moment, time seems to stand still. Impossible, Sherlock knows. Across the small table at the window overlooking Northumberland Street, John scrutinises the menu, as he did that night, now five years on, then sets it aside. In just under ten seconds, Sherlock’s eidetic memory replays in minute detail every moment of that dinner which is meticulously stored in his Mind Palace.

“...have a girlfriend?” John says, his husky voice interrupting Sherlock’s reverie.

“No, not really my area,” he replies, not at all surprised that John remembers. His doctor wears his sentiment like a badge of honor.

It’s only a few moments later that Angelo stops at their table to greet them with wine and John’s favorite bread. 

“Unusually busy tonight, it’s good that you made a reservation, Sherlock, so you would have your usual table. Only the best for my favorite guests on this special night.”

“Thank you, Angelo,” Sherlock offers with a slight smile.

“Your dinner is being plated as we speak and will be served in just a moment.” 

Angelo congratulates each of them with a handshake and departs.

John smiles at Sherlock, his eyes sparkling with humor.

“You have a boyfriend, then?” he asks, picking up the thread of their previous conversation.

Sherlock chuckles deep in his chest, the resonance he knows will go straightaway to John’s..

John clears his throat, and grins. “Yes, married to your work, I imagine.”

“John, you know I’m married to my husband,” Sherlock whispers.

“Whose an idiot, no doubt.”

“No, the love of my life,” Sherlock offers as he reaches across the table to take his hand.

“Ah, you are a smart man.”

“A genius, actually.”

“Brilliant.”

“You are the brilliant one, John.”

“No, I’m just your conductor of light?”

“There is no ‘just.’

For long minutes they gaze at each other until Angelo appears once again to serve their vegetable lasagna.

“Enjoy, my friends,” Angelo says, not linger as he might have on any other night.

“Who would have thought. Five years.”

“Improbable,” Sherlock murmurs as he scoots around the table to sit next to John. 

“But not impossible, love,” John whispers as he presses his lips to Sherlock’s.

“Happy anniversary, John.”

John gently touches his wine glass to Sherlock’s.

“And to a hundred more.”


End file.
